Truth was, I didn’t relish listening to Mom gush over her famous ex-son-in-law to and from Dodger Stadium with Nick in the car. Though Jarret failed to convince me his cheating was a harmless mistake, he somehow charmed my mother into forgiving him. I remembered her comment after I explained my reasons for divorcing Jarret: “But he’s such a nice boy.”
“I can’t see why your brother can’t get one night off to celebrate his father’s birthday,” Mom said, picking up then setting down the snow globe on my mantel. “There are thousands of police detectives on the street solving crimes. It’s the same complaint I had about the force before your father retired—you’d think the Gordon men were the only two homicide detectives in the LAPD.”
“When you’re the best, everyone wants you.”
“You’re lucky Nick Garfield doesn’t have that problem.”
“Excuse me? Nick teaches the most popular classes at NoHo.”
“I meant no one calls a professor out in the middle of the night,” Mom said. “Where is Nick? Why isn’t he here helping you? School is closed for the summer.”
“He’s been here every day, Mom. He’s at the UCLA library doing research this morning,” I said.
“Research for what?”
“He’s prepping for a new class he’s teaching next semester—Religious Influences in North American Folk Magic and Occultism.”
Chapter Three
I unpacked and arranged the last boxes of curios in the dining room then began my attack on loose ends in the kitchen, rearranging drawers and stacking my cookbook collection in an out-of the-way cupboard. The new stainless-steel appliances in my gray-and-white vintage forties kitchen hummed, waiting for me to break out the measuring spoons and learn to cook—an art Robin, Mom, and Nick executed with panache. I executed my cooking like capital punishment, yet I remained determined to master the skill. Probably not this week, but soon. Swear. I could almost taste the lemonade I planned to make with the lemons from my tree one day. Baby steps.
As I folded up emptied cartons, Stan and Angel stopped to say good-bye before they left for the day.
“Same time tomorrow?” I said.
“Nine. I have to stop at the hardware store first,” Stan said.
“And when do you think you’ll put in the tub and tiles?”
“Soon.”
“What day is ‘soon’?”
Stan scratched his chin. “Friday, maybe?”
Friday, maybe wasn’t a day either. Which Friday? They hustled out the front door before I could ask.
I carried the empty boxes out to the garage, made another check with my office service for client messages, then went upstairs to freshen up for the game. The current heat wave kept temperatures in the high seventies late into the night, so I opted for a white T-shirt, my favorite jeans, and black Converse sneakers. I added makeup and lipstick, and then bent my head to brush through the waves in my brown hair. Erzulie stretched on my down comforter, watching me dab a finishing touch of rose oil behind my ears.
“Are you hungry?” I said to my fuzzy companion.
The magic words. She meowed, hopped off the bed toward the door, stopped to see if I followed, and then darted downstairs, tail up. I found her sitting on the kitchen counter top, waiting for me to open a can of smelly delights from the sea. Erzulie let me know early in our relationship that chicken or beef was not acceptable to her palate.
Once Erzulie tucked into the sardine mush in the bowl on the floor, even the tap-tap at the front door and Nick’s greeting didn’t disturb her. Pretty amazing since Nick was Erzulie’s hero-man.
“Liz?” Nick’s rich voice echoed from the entry hall.
“In the kitchen,” I said, shaking my head for one last fluff of my hair.
Nick, tall, fit, and tanned from his recent trip to Mexico and weekends playing basketball with my brother, leaned on the doorjamb between the dining room and kitchen. Wisps of gray and sandy brown hair peeked out from under a weathered blue baseball cap with the red C in the center, his beloved Chicago Cubs’ logo. He crossed his arms over his faded navy blue sweatshirt, his brown eyes twinkling with a slow warm smile that reached into my chest and pulled at my heart.
I wiped my hands and went to him, letting the comfort of his arms envelop me. He brushed his lips on the top of my head, and then lifted my chin. Quivers feathered up my spine from his mind-swimming kiss.
With his lips a whisper from mine he said, “When do we have to leave?”
“Five minutes.”
“Not enough time.” He pulled me closer.
“Then we better stop now,” I said, catching my breath. “Or you get to explain to everyone why we were late.”
“Struck out and the game hasn’t even begun.”
I stepped back and tugged at the brim of his cap. “You wore this to our first baseball game together in college.”
“The Illini were on their way to the Big Ten Baseball Championship and Dave brought you along to see the phenom rookie pitch. What was that guy’s name? Jarret something?”
“Cooper, I think.”
“Right. The only time my lucky cap let me down. My mistake for taking you down to the field to meet the winning pitcher. I should have asked you out instead.”
“You? A big important junior dating a lowly freshman? Scandalous.”
“I had to wait years for my second chance,” Nick said.
“Was I worth the wait?”
“Endlessly. Are you ready to dine on Dodger dogs and peanuts?”
“I’m ready for anything.”
He raised his brows, grinning. “Anything? Maybe we should stay here. Your parents—”
“Would never forgive us if we didn’t show up tonight. Dad can’t wait to see you.”
“Me?”
“A fellow Cubs fanatic? I only hope he lets the rest of us talk to you during the game.”
Nick steered his red SUV onto the 101 Freeway entrance at Vineland and Riverside, driving east to I5 South with the Dodger pre-game show on the radio. The ride from Studio City to Dodger Stadium in Chavez Ravine took thirty minutes in normal traffic. We hit rush hour.
“Did you find what you were searching for at the library?” I said as we crept through traffic.
“Not everything. I’m going again tomorrow. Hohman’s version of The Long Lost Friend sidetracked me. The folklore and mythology specialist in the research section is trying to track down an eighteen-eighty English translation of the Sixth and Seventh Books of Moses. All of their Scheible books are in German.”
“And this has to do with…” I circled my hand.
“Folk religion and magic systems in nineteenth-century Pennsylvania. Good-luck charms, medicine men, and curses.”
“A list of your favorite things. I’m glad you came up for air to come to a nice twenty-first-century baseball game. Did you take time to eat?”
“We stopped for a sandwich off campus. You know, baseball and its superstitions go all the way back to the nineteenth century. The New York Knickerbockers baseball team was formed before the Civil War.”
“We?”
Nick glanced at me. “No, all of baseball.”
“You said ‘we’ stopped for lunch.”
“Oh. I ran into Isabella at the library, doing research for a paper on Mexican folklore. I told you about her.”
“Your former fiancée from Costa Rica?”
“Pretend fiancée.”
“I still don’t comprehend the pretend part. Were you dating her?”
“No.” Nick snickered. “I didn’t hear about my engagement until Isabella and I got on the plane from Costa Rica to Los Angeles. Her village has a machismo culture—her grandfather wouldn’t allow Isabella to leave home to attend UCLA without a husband. When I stayed with the family in Playa Del Alma, Isabella and her mother came up with a plan for Izzy to return to California with me. Then, behind my back, they told the grandfather we were getting married.”
I wrinkled my nose. “How manipulative.”
<
br /> “The women battled cultural standards. Her mother wanted Izzy to go to college in the States. The ruse seemed innocent enough. I was happy to help—both of her parents opened their home to me during my stay. After our plane took off, Izzy told me about everything, then promised to write her grandfather saying she broke the engagement.”
“Did she?”
“I assume so. Izzy’s a good kid. You’ll like her.”
Then why hadn’t I met her? A jealous lump rose in my throat. After Nick and I got together, we were happily exclusive. Or so I thought.
“Isabella happened to be at the library today?”
“She’s a student at UCLA, Liz. Yes. She happened to be at their library writing a paper. What’s the problem?”
“Nothing.” Then added with a sarcastic bite, “Did you two have a good time at lunch?”
“We had a great time. I want you to meet her.”
“I’ve heard that before.” I turned to the window.
“Okay, what’s with the attitude?”
Good question. Nick had female friends. He worked with women, he taught women, and he never gave me reason to feel threatened or suspicious. Why today?
I stared out the passenger window as traffic slowed near the Griffith Park Golf Course. Behind the fence bordering the freeway, a group of female golfers sashayed to the green in shorts. The casual sway of their hips made me think of Laycee Huber prancing through my Atlanta backyard flirting with every man at our summer barbeques. Realization clicked in—my foul attitude had nothing to do with Nick and Isabella. My encounter with Laycee brought up unresolved indignation over her tryst with my ex.
Flushing with shame, I faced Nick. “I’m sorry. This morning at the gym, I ran into a woman I hoped I’d never see again—an ex-neighbor from Atlanta who had an affair with Jarret. She pretended to be my friend, then and now.”
“What did you say to her?”
“It’s not what I said, it’s what I should have done. Maybe if I had bopped Laycee on the nose like I wanted to years ago, I wouldn’t be in a snit about you running into Isabella today.”
“Before you punch anyone in the nose with that little fist, I’ll make sure you and Isabella meet. I don’t want you to have any doubts about our relationship. I’m not Jarret, Liz.”
“Can I kiss you?”
“I don’t know. I’m trying to drive. You might distract me and cause a pileup.”
I touched his right cheek. “There. I’m going to kiss you right there.”
“If you have to.” He angled his head to the side for my smooch.
We exited the freeway on Stadium Way. Clusters of people picnicked and tossed Frisbees beneath the lush green trees in Elysian Park, surrounding the stadium in Chavez Ravine.
Fond childhood memories stirred my excitement as we pulled up to the gate at the top of Academy Road. Dodger Stadium, the oldest ballpark on the West Coast, stood majestic in the early evening sunlight, encircled with parking lots and framed by the distant southern skyline of towering downtown Los Angeles skyscrapers.
I loved the game long before I met Jarret or became a baseball wife. Mom became a Dodger fan when the team moved to L.A. in 1958. Dad grew up a Cubs fan in Chicago. My parents took Dave and me to Dodger Stadium as soon as we were old enough to gum a hot dog. Dad taught us how to keep box scores and waited with us in the parking lot after games to meet the players. At home, Mom and Dad would hold hands on the couch as their teams played each other. When Dave and I were in grade school, Dad worked the LAPD night shift. Mom let us listen to Dodger night games on the radio and we shared the highlights with Dad at breakfast. Even after my divorce, I kept a casual watch on baseball standings for sports talk with Dad.
Nick parked in the season ticket lot behind the bleachers. We walked hand in hand to the right-field entrance to the Grandstand to meet Dave and Robin outside the souvenir shop.
Robin waved at us over the crowd, her shoulder-length blonde hair glistening under the stadium lights. She carried her rounded curves like an asset, and more than one set of male eyes turned to check out her worn jeans and V-neck tee as she pulled Dave toward us. His Dodger T-shirt fit snug over the belly of his 220-pound frame, with extra pounds courtesy of Robin’s excellent home cooking, no doubt.
“Excuse me?” Robin pointed to Nick’s cap. “A Cubs’ hat? What is your area code, sir?”
“Eight-one-eight,” Nick said, grinning down at her. “However, I was born in the three-one-two and raised at Wrigley Field.”
“You know why Nick studies the occult, don’t you?” Dave said. “He’s on a mission to learn how to reverse the Curse of the Billy Goat.”
“What’s that?” Robin said with a giggle.
“A very sad story,” Nick said. “In 1945, a tavern owner got thrown out of a World Series game at Wrigley Field because the stink of his pet goat bothered the fans. He got so upset over the insult to the goat that he put a curse on the Cubs and swore they would never win another World Series. The Cubs didn’t win that game and they haven’t won a World Series since.”
“Are you really searching for a reverse for the curse?” Robin said.
“Always,” Nick said with a serious nod. “But don’t worry, I’ll be gracious when they win tonight.”
“We’re not worried about your sorry Midwest team, pal. We’ll even dry your tears after the Dodgers win,” Dave said. “First team to third base buys a round of beer.”
“You’re on,” Nick said. “I hope you’re thirsty, because Cubs take the first at bat.”
“What’s in the bag?” I said, pointing to the white plastic pouch in Robin’s hand.
“While we were waiting for you, Dave bought souvenir shirts for your mom and us girls.” She opened the bag and showed me three pink T-shirts, each with a silver-glittered Dodger logo on the chest.
I slowed down to let Nick and Dave pass through the security checkpoint first. “Pink? You let him buy us pink T-shirts?”
Robin put a finger to her lips. “Please don’t say anything. Dave picked them out. If he thinks I love the shirt, he’ll feel confident buying me gifts. He says making me happy makes him happy. Getting presents makes me happy.”
“Pink doesn’t make me happy,” I said.
“Why?” Robin squeezed the bag tight to her waist. “The shirt is cute.”
“To you, sure. You look good in pink. I’m not wearing that thing.”
“A little cranky tonight, Liz? Are you edgy about being at the game with Nick when Jarret might pitch?”
“No. Jarret will be on the field. He’s too far away to cause friction.”
“Then why the mood?”
“Remember when I told you about Laycee Huber, my old neighbor in Atlanta? The one Jarret—” I stopped to show my ticket and open my purse for the security guards.
“Slept with?” Robin said, passing through the gate.
“Right. She’s in town. I saw her at the gym this morning.”
“Ugh. Way to start the day, Liz.”
Robin and I caught up with Nick and Dave at the Field Box entrance and the four of us wove our way through the thick stream of fans searching for their seats and lining up for food at the concession stands. Fifteen minutes to game time, the stands were less than half full with the rest of the fans stuck outside in traffic or being L.A. fashionably late. We took two sets of escalators up to the MVP Loge Boxes to Section 103 and the seats reserved for Dodger players’ friends and family. Jarret gave my parents tickets in the fifth row above and behind home plate with a sweeping view of the entire field.
“Finally,” Mom said after we filed to our seats. “Nick, you sit next to Walter. Dave, you sit—”
“Vivian, stop telling everyone what to do.” My dad, in a gray Chicago Cubs T-shirt matching his thinning salt-and-pepper hair, hugged Robin and me then shook Nick’s hand.
“Good to see you, Walter,” Nick said. “Happy birthday.”
“Thank you.” Dad beamed with excitement. “I can’t think of a bett
er way to celebrate than at a Cub’s game—”
“Dodger game,” Mom and Dave said in unison.
“With my family and close friends,” Dad said. “Nick, I hope you’re ready for a battle tonight. I’m not sure about Robin, but Dave, Liz, and Viv don’t take losing lightly.”
“We’ll see who leaves here happy. Game’s not over until the last out,” Dave said.
Robin and Mom left to change into the “lucky” pink T-shirts Dave bought. I begged off, claiming I wanted to stay to hear the lineup and the national anthem.
“Superstitious?” Nick said.
I smiled up at him, aware that Nick, Dave, and Dad all insisted on being in their seats for the first pitch. “I can’t let you and Dad take the advantage for your team. I’m staying to even up the Dodger numbers for Dave.”
Fans waved white rally towels at the end of the anthem as the Dodger players took their places on the field and the first Cub batter stepped to the plate.
At the top of the second inning with the score tied at zero, Nick stood. “First round of beer and dogs is on me. Who’s in?”
Five hands waved. I volunteered to help, following Nick up the steps and across the crowded aisle to the concession stand. As we took our places at the end of the line, I heard my name called. I turned. Laycee Huber and Kyle Stanger pushed toward us through the crush of people. It was too late to duck. Thank God I hadn’t donned the pink T-shirt. Laycee wore the identical pink Dodger shirt with the silver-glittered logo stretched across her breasts. Though we measured the same height barefoot, she towered over me in three-inch heels peeking from beneath the hem of her skintight white pants. Her shoulder-length wavy brown hair dipped over her forehead from a side part.
“Sugar, we haven’t seen each other in a month of Sundays and now twice in the same day. But then, neither one of us were much for church, were we?” Laycee flashed a dimpled smile my way then settled her eyes on Nick. “And who is this? Why Liz, I think you’ve outdone yourself.”
I nodded up at Nick with a grin. He slid an affectionate arm around my waist as I made the introductions. Kyle grunted back a hello. Laycee took in Nick like a predator eyeing her prey.
Hex on the Ex Page 3
